The Words
by torri.oats
Summary: The only child of Rowan and Maya Pope, Olivia Pope struggles to meet their demands for perfection. Summary sucks again. Sorry.


_This has lived on my hard drive for a couple of months. Originally, it was a dream in another story, but it didn't quite fit. I've tried to make it work with other stories but it never felt right. I decided it should standalone._

_There was a moment in the first episode of season 3 with Rowan and Olivia in the airport hangar that really captured my imagination. Kerry made an acting choice and kind of moved her head a bit when Rowan touched her face. Based on that little thing, I thought of a backstory for Olivia, which I attempt to tackle in this story._

* * *

"I love you, Livvie." She doesn't bother looking up. Her eyes are glued on the words on the page. They dance and twirl, and are far more entertaining than the woman whose silhouette disappears and re-appears in her life, as though she'd never left at all. The woman makes promises she does not keep. Sweeps in and out of her life like a sudden wind, blowing everything around in chaos.

Yet, she is the mother. She is formidable and her presence demands respect wherever she goes. And if, for some reason, someone is slow to give it, the mother gives the offensive person a look dead in the center of their eyes and the words that follow are spoken in such a tone, it sends an ice-cold chill down the spine. She gives her young daughter smile and teaches her lessons she will remember the rest of her life.

"There are people who will not respect you Livvie no matter how much you achieve, no matter how intelligent you are; you are still black."

"There are people who will refuse to see you, Livvie. So you make them. You look them in the eye and make sure they know who you are."

"Livvie, your father tells you you have to be twice as good, but he knows nothing about being a black woman. Twice as good isn't good enough, baby girl. You have to be, three, four times as good and remind them often that you are the best. Because that is exactly what you are."

Blah, blah, blah. After awhile, the words are just noise. But it's the words on the page in the fictional worlds that grab her, hold her, laugh and cry with her. "I love you" hangs in the air unreturned, an echo that freezes in suspended animation ever so briefly, before falling to the ground in a pile of meaningless letters.

A little girl looks up and sees not her mother; it is her father. His tears. Are they real? A man she's known to be hard and harsh, a man she thought was devoid of feelings leaves himself exposed. The tears seem to fall in slow motion, stopping for dramatic effect, then landing into the growing pool with a silent splash.

She does not know why, but she cries with him. The man, stoic and unforgiving, with his deep voice and heavy hand, has a heart after all. So, she weeps with him. Weeps for the love she's never felt. Weeps for the life she lives with two parents who are far too busy to give her the attention she craves. At least she has her books. At least she has the words.

She's a lost lamb, innocent and unknowing, eyes darting from the television to the father, back and forth, unable to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Until she does. Until it smacks her in the face again and again and again and if she didn't know better, she could swear there is blood running down her face. Surely, there will be scars and all will know she is broken.

There will be no opportunity to say, "I love you too." No secret girl talk. No whispers of hopes and dreams. No lectures on what it means to be a woman, how to carry herself with dignity in the face of the trials she will certainly face as a black face in this world. No advice on how to be a woman of color who is destined for and will achieve greatness. No words of wisdom of how to love and how to love well.

She is alone. Innocence gone. Thrust into a world of adulthood with no compass.

There is the piano in the corner that she loves to play. "It has to be on an inside wall, Livvie," that's what Maya told her when the men brought it inside the house. It was a beautiful instrument, even to her two-year-old eyes. Large and black, overwhelming in size with the gold letters S-T-E-I-N-W-A-Y emblazoned on the front.

It is a special piece, passed down from her grandmother.

"I can't wait to teach you how to play." Maya was so excited as she explained to her young daughter who could barely walk, how her long, thin fingers made it easier for her to force such beautiful sounds from the instrument. The mother never played with sheet music; she played by sound, having memorized piece after piece.

Mother taught the daughter and it pleased the elder Pope that her gift had been passed down to their pride and joy. While other kids were learning "Chopsticks", Olivia Pope was already on Beethoven. While others graduated to "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", she was mastering Chopin.

After Maya died and before she was shipped off to boarding school, Eli wants her to play John Philip Sousa. Demands it, actually. His head bops along to each composition, but Olivia hates it because her mother hated it. Maya preferred the sounds of Mozart and Beethoven, with a little Tchaikovsky from time to time.

But her father makes her play. Her fingers pound, rather than glide across the ivory. The bass keys, when she touches them, are angry because she is angry. She pounds until it aches, her feet stomping on the pedals below. She pleases him, that's what he always says, right before reminding her to clean the piano keys. Key by key, she wipes away her taint and with his white glove, he always finds the one crevice she missed. "Olivia," he bellows, "I don't know how many times I have to tell you to that anything less than perfection is unacceptable. You're careless. A speck of dirt grows and infects like a cancer. You are a Pope. I require more from you."

She grows smaller at his words, hoping to render herself invisible because she knows what's next. She fears what was next. He grabs her by the collar and pulls her along. She's learned to not fight back and accept the punishment from the angry beast. She leaves her body and hovers above as he takes the ironing cord to her back. The tears come, but do not fall. Her weakness, she refuses to show.

And when he is finished with his lesson, he tries to soothe her heart with meaningless words. She nods, a sign of forgiveness. He smiles, a sign of acceptance. He leaves. She retrieves a book, something light and happy, filled with family and love, and she allows herself to get lost in a tale of the life she dreams.

AN: I chose John Philip Sousa as Rowan's composer of choice for a very specific reason. If you're familiar with Sousa, you'll understand why.


End file.
